It's All Coming Back to Me Now
by Mimmzie
Summary: After Mystrade's engagement party, John and Sherlock spent the night together. Now, John is unsure whether or not Sherlock remembers. Johnlock.
1. I

It had only happened once.

After the engagement party of Mycroft and Greg, something had happened. Something that wasn't acknowledged, something they didn't speak of.

John wasn't sure how it happened, but when he woke up the morning after, he was lying in Sherlock's bed.

Naked.

With the detective next to him.

He remembered he had really enjoyed himself at the party, while Sherlock kept complaining about the ridiculousness of it. He remembered how he had had maybe just a little too much to drink. He remembered how they decided to leave after the two of them had developed trouble standing upright, he remembered how they said goodbye to Mycroft and Greg, he remembered how they went outside and how Sherlock hailed a cab, taking them back to Baker Street.

However, he had no idea what had happened between the moment they entered their flat and the moment he woke up with Sherlock next to him.

Something had happened, and John could of course guess what; he was just not sure how, and why he wanted to remember it.

He should feel weird about it; he was straight and he was not attracted to Sherlock... and somehow, the two of them had still ended up in bed together.

After John had woken up, he had panicked a little, seeing the man next to him, and had run off to his own room. A few hours later, when he and Sherlock emerged from their respective rooms, neither of them had brought up the incident.

It had been six months, and the two of them had ignored what had happened.

It wasn't acknowledged, they didn't speak about it. It had only happened once, and John wasn't even sure Sherlock remembered the whole incident. Both of them had had quite some wine, champagne and other alcoholic beverages, and when John had left the room, the detective had still been asleep; it was possible he had no memories of that night whatsoever.

That was why John didn't bring it up. It had been months, and even though John really wanted to talk about it, he was afraid to ruin their friendship by trying to have a conversation about something that Sherlock didn't even remember.

If he remained silent, there would be no conflict. There would be no awkwardness, there would be no grudges, there would be no hard feelings. They could just continue life as they knew it.

"It was only one time," John whispered to himself. He was standing in front of the mirror, nervously adjusting his bow tie, trying to smooth the sleeves of his suit, putting product into his hair, when a soft knock on the door of his room made him jump a little.

"John?"

Sherlock.

John looked at himself in the mirror, sighed and took a deep breath before answering his friend. "Yes, come in." He slowly turned around to face Sherlock.

The detective leaned against the door frame, looking both dashingly handsome and incredibly bored, judging by his facial expression and the way he stared into the thin air in front of him. "Ready?" He asked, not even trying to keep the indifference out of his voice.

John, who couldn't get himself to look Sherlock in the eye, nodded, glancing into the mirror sideways.

"You look good, John, no need to reassure."

The moment those words left Sherlock's mouth, he seemed to regret them, but John gave him a simple smile.

"Thanks. If that's the case, then I'm as ready as I'll ever be." John followed his friend outside, where they got into the car that Mycroft had sent to pick them up.

"Guess they don't want us to be late," Sherlock said, leaning back into the car seat and taking his phone out of his pocket.

"It's your brother, Sherlock."

"I'm aware of our familial ties, John, thank you."

He shook his head, unable to restrain a smile. "That was not what I meant, and you know it. It's your brother, and it is his wedding."

"Once again, thank you for stating the obvious," Sherlock said, looking up from his phone. When John wanted to speak again, the detective raised his hand and gave him a small smile. "I know, John. I'll do my best to make this day as pleasant as possible for him and Graham."

"His name's Greg."

"That's what he wants you to think."

* * *

"Mycroft! Greg!"

The two grooms had been beaming the entire day, but when they saw John walking towards them, their smiles grew a little bigger.

"John," Mycroft said, taking John's extended hand and shaking it, "good to see you. How are you?"

"Fine, fine," John answered, making his way over to Mycroft's new husband and shaking his hand as well. "Congratulations, you two, you're married! How does it feel?"

"I think I'll have to get used to it." Greg raised his hand and looked at his wedding ring for a few seconds, before directing his attention back to John. "Are you enjoying the party?"

Before John even got the chance to speak, he was interrupted by Sherlock, who appeared out of nowhere by his side.

"Mycroft, Gavin," he said, his voice shaking a little.

"Little brother," the other Holmes answered. "You look like you've been enjoying the party a little too much."

"I only had three drinks."

It was only then that John recognized the way Sherlock's hands were shaking, the difficulty with which he spoke.

Sherlock was drunk.

It had only happened once.

"I doubt it." Mycroft turned towards John and gave him a disapproving look. "It would be better if you'd go home, Sherlock."

"You don't want me to cause any trouble," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but - " Greg started, but Mycroft interrupted him, putting a hand on his shoulder to quiet his husband down.

"Go home, Sherlock. Now. John?"

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before nodding. "Okay. Fine. Come on, Sherlock. It would be better if we didn't disturb this party any further. We should allow your brother," He emphasized the last word, trying to make his friend understand, "to enjoy his first day as a married man."

Sherlock looked at John like it was the first time he ever saw him, squinting his eyes, and muttered, "So you're just letting him throw me out?"

John simply ignored the question, and after one last apologizing smile, he took Sherlock's hand and led the detective out of the building, helping him into the car. The two of them were quiet on the way home, and when they had finally entered their flat and sat down in their sitting room, Sherlock was the first to speak again.

"I'm not drunk."

"Of course not," John answered, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"I just have a little headache."

"Hmm."

Sherlock got up and paced through the room, doing everything he could to avoid falling over.

John watched him for a few minutes before breaking the silence between them. "Sherlock?"

The detective looked down at him and nodded. "Yes?"

"Well..." John was unsure how to start, how he could bring up the last party the two of them had been to together. "Do you remember Mycroft and Greg's engagement party?"

"Hardly."

He shouldn't do this. Going through with this would only destroy their friendship.

On the other hand, Sherlock probably wouldn't remember this. This entire conversation would be forgotten by tomorrow morning, just like other things had been forgotten.

He could ask him.

"Not at all?"

Sherlock sat down in his chair again and closed his eyes. "This is why I dislike alcohol; it meddles with the senses, makes me unable to trust what I observe." He opened his eyes again and looked John directly in the eye. "Everything's blurry, and I'm not sure if some things actually happened or are simply a figment of my imagination."

John averted his eyes and sighed almost inaudible. "Like?"

"Why are you all of a sudden interested in this, John?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his temples.

"Just... curious, I guess."

"We can talk about this tomorrow. I'm going to bed now." The detective got up, walking towards the door to his room.

"Of course," John said, also rising from his seat. "Good night."

When he passed Sherlock, their hands touched, and John froze in his path. He stared at Sherlock, who stared back at him, looking a lot less drunk than he had before, their eyes flickering to each other's lips every so often, their faces slowly inching closer.

They had been in this position before.

It had only happened once.

"Sherlock," John gasped, feeling his cheeks heating up, "I'm sorry." He quickly turned around, when Sherlock grabbed his wrist to stop him from walking away.

"John."

The doctor turned around again, facing his friend, avoiding his eyes.

"Look at me."

When John looked up and he and Sherlock locked eyes, he remembered. When Sherlock brought up his hand, touched his face, bowed over and kissed him, it all came back.

It had already happened once before.

 _It was all coming back to him now._


	2. II

**AN. Months after I finished the first part, I wrote a part two. Oh, well.**

* * *

It was all coming back to him now.

This had happened before.

They had been in this exact position, Sherlock's hand on his face, Sherlock's lips on his own.

He remembered how they'd gotten home, that last time, how they had entered the house, how their hands had touched and their eyes had locked, how Sherlock's mouth had found his.

He remembered how Sherlock's lips had felt, how his fingers had slowly trailed his cheekbone, how the detective has pressed him against the door, how they had entered the room and how they had made love that night. He remembered.

It was happening again.

When the two men finally broke away from each other, they simply looked at one another, both breathing heavily.

"I -" John started, not sure how to put his thoughts into words. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

John sighed and looked away from Sherlock, bowing his head and rubbing his temples. He felt strange, like there were butterflies dancing around in his stomach. He knew what love felt like, and he could not be in love with Sherlock Holmes. He was not in love with Sherlock Holmes. That was not happening to him. "You're drunk. You won't remember this tomorrow, just like you don't remember - never mind." Sherlock was drunk, and he did not want to take advantage of his friend.

They were _friends_ , for god's sake.

"I'm not drunk, John. I told you, I only had three drinks. That was not a lie," the detective said, his voice sounding uncharacteristically soft.

"You threw a tantrum at your own brother's wedding."

"That was hardly a minor disturbance of the festive atmosphere," Sherlock answered carelessly, bringing up his hand to touch John's cheek again, causing the doctor to blush. "I - I just wanted to go home."

"You could have told me that."

"I -" The detective pulled back his hand and coughed. "I wanted you to think I wouldn't remember this night. I wanted you to speak your mind freely."

"Why?"

Sherlock smiled lightly. "Sometimes people tell me I'm oblivious, but this time it is you."

John didn't answer.

"Don't you remember?"

It had happened before.

"Do you?"

"Of course. I don't get drunk, it meddles with the senses. I want to be able to trust what I observe."

"What do you observe right now?"

"Something I never thought I'd see again." Sherlock bowed his head, looking away.

It had happened before.

John looked up, wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and pressed his lips to the detective's, who immediately took the doctor into his arms and pulled him closer. He tugged on Sherlock's dark curls, feeling the bulge in his trousers press against his own.

He was in love with Sherlock. Sherlock was in love with him.

It was all coming back to him now. It had happened before, and it would happen again.

He would never want to forget this. He wanted to do this so many times that he could remember every little detail, such as the little moan that escaped Sherlock's mouth when he did _this_ and the way his hot breath felt against his skin when he did _that_.

He wanted to remember how Sherlock opened the door to his room and how they stumbled inside, how they rapidly undressed, stealing kisses, and fell on the bed, together. He wanted to remember how his friend wrapped first his hand, and then his lips around his erection, how he couldn't stiffle a moan when Sherlock started sucking him off, memories from last time flashing in front of his eyes. He wanted to remember how Sherlock felt, how tight he was when he pressed himself into him, how he yelled and grunted and screamed his name when he came.

He wanted to remember the feeling of Sherlock's arms around him, the closeness and warmth of his body, the kiss pressed to his temple when he drifted off to sleep.

 _It was all coming back to him now._


End file.
